


Stabbed in the Pride and in the Side

by ConvenientAlias



Category: Henry IV - Shakespeare, Henry IV Part 1 - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works, The Hollow Crown (2012)
Genre: Banter, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Porn, M/M, Pre-Slash, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Walk Into A Bar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-07 08:46:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17957354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/pseuds/ConvenientAlias
Summary: Henry Hotspur Percy will never recover from this indignity. He, victor of a hundred battles, has been MUGGED. In EASTCHEAP. His annoyance drives him into the Boar's Head Inn, where he meets a certain man who is concerned about his health.





	Stabbed in the Pride and in the Side

Henry Hotspur Percy had been wounded in the worst possible area: his pride. For years now, he had fought in his king’s wars, and for years now, he had been victorious in battle. He had felled many great warriors, led an army, killed and taken prisoners both. He considered himself a proficient fighter; nay, something of a genius, an artist, in the field—but tonight, he had been defeated by three roughs in Eastcheap, and he’d lost all the money he had on him but one or two coins he kept in the lining of his clothing.

He had also been cut pretty badly in the side, but that was a secondary matter. He knew how to deal with wounds of the flesh—wasn’t his body covered with similar scars?—but his pride, oh, his pride. He would never recover from this.

Almost too self-hating to be angry—but not quite, never quite—he headed into a nearby tavern to drown his sorrows and vent his fury. The bartender, some boy named Francis who was slow to respond to an order, set him up with a pint of beer before scuttling off. He chugged it down. His side panged when he leaned too far back, and he was starting to get dizzy, but fuck it, he was in dire need of beer and ale, and even if he hated to frequent an establishment like this, if he had to…

“Excuse me, sir, but are you not Harry Percy?”

He looked up. There were two men standing in front of him, both of them lanky and ill-dressed in their own separate ways: one in finery that was flashy and dirty and nothing dignified, the other in plainer cloth that was just as dirty if not as gaudy. Their faces were dirty, too, and their hair… He grimaced. The flashy one was the one addressing him, and there was a look on his face so courteous as to be mocking.

“I am he, and what’s it to a pair of rapscallion bastards like yourselves?”

“The one called Hotspur for his, hm, passion in battle?” the flashy one asked.

The plainer one added, “That they say shows his passions little enough elsewhere, more’s the pity…”

“I have asked you what use you have for my name; I’ll have that information before you speak it again, and if you speak it regardless, I’ll have blood for it,” Percy said. He had put down his cup.

The flashy man whistled quietly. “Sooth, that’s why we wished to speak with you—the matter of blood, or more specifically, the blood currently staining your jerkin. Did Sir Harry Percy find battle in our humble alleyways? Or is it an old wound broken open anew? Or is that all the blood of an enemy—but,” he added, stepping offensively close, “I tell you I can smell that blood from here, and it smells like noble blood to me, and there are very few here who can call themselves noble.”

“There is one,” the other said with a laugh.

“There is one,” the flashy man admitted, “but Prince Harry has not been pricked tonight, not in such a manner as to draw blood and not by our good Harry Percy… Pray, sir, how have you been wounded?”

Percy had snorted at the mention of Prince Harry—as if that lazy, overindulgent asshole could ever lay a hand on him, or would even dare! He had not seen Prince Harry in a few years, and in fact had only met him a few times, but he’d never had a good impression of him, to the extent that Harry had left an impression at all. Percy didn’t bother to keep such men in his mind.

He crossed his arms. How he would like to lie and say it was an old wound reopened, or give some excuse… But no, he was no liar, and shameful as tonight’s incident had been, it would be more shameful to give excuses. “I was attacked by three men in the alley. They perhaps pricked me some, and ran off with my money. When I catch the bastards there will be more blood than this by far.”

The two men exchanged glances. “Tell me…” the flashy one began, but paused when Percy, despite himself, shivered in a long, full-body spasm. He seemed to change his mind. “Tell me, good sir, have you seen your wound seen to? And if you have not, perhaps we may look at it here?”

“It is nothing. I will be home in an hour or two…”

“Come, man, we may not be the king’s physicians nor your own, but men of Eastcheap bleed as freely as elsewhere, and I daresay our craft will do in a pinch. There are rooms upstairs—”

“I can imagine, in a whore den!”

“—where we will see to your injury, and clean it out, and you may see your doctor when you return home. Else you will only ever curse this neighborhood for its criminals, and never give us a chance to show our generosity and the goodness of our hearts, which would be most unjust.”

Percy sighed. “A plague on you for bothering me in my drink. Fine, if you will not let me alone, as it seems you will not. You may see the wound and see its insignificance, and I may return to my ale.”

He was immediately dragged upstairs, with only a brief delay to fetch cloth and water. The room was as tawdry as one might expect in most things: Ragged curtains, floor stained with who-knew-what, the stench of alcohol and sex. The bed was uncommonly good, though, when he sat down on it, the blankets made of finer material than he expected and the mattress very soft. The flashy man said, “This is the room the prince himself often uses, when he is here. Is it to your likely?”

“The whoring prince,” Percy said. “Compare me not to him, or I’ll leave immediately; I’ll not let an insult stand from someone claiming to be my friend.”

“Have we claimed to be your friends, sir?” the plainer man exclaimed.

“You have said you must see to my injury—either you are friends of the most obnoxious sort, or gossip-mongers who want to see it in order to spread tales…”

“Well, so much for our reputation,” the plainer man sighed, “it seems we are not trusted—but you insult the prince.” He nudged the flashy man. “Surely that’s…”

The flashy man interrupted. “A topic for another day: I pray you take off your jerkin and shirt, so we may have a look at you.”

Percy sighed and stripped. This was his lowest low, the greatest dishonor he had ever stood for. But he would have to put up with it; besides, he was hardly ashamed of his body. The two examined him and frowned at his wound. The flashy man said, “This is a graver injury than you said, Sir Hotspur. And I had heard you were an honest man.”

“If you will accuse me of lying—!”

“No, never mind, I’m sure you deceive yourself. Ned, fetch a needle and thread. We’ll have to sew it, too. Now, hold still, Sir Percy—I’ll clean it out.”

Percy did hold still, though he was not entirely comfortable with being left alone with the flashy man. There was something oddly intense about him, for a gentleman of Eastcheap. Oddly alluring, too, despite his mockery and airs. Interesting that he had chosen the prince’s room—did he have easy access to it? “Do you know Prince Harry?” he asked.

The man laughed, but it did not affect his motions. He was cleaning the wound slowly and carefully, efficiently wiping away blood with a wet rag. It was not still bleeding heavily, which was probably a good sign. “Everyone who frequents Eastcheap has met the prince at least once. They say he is more a prince here than anywhere else in the nation.”

Percy snorted. “Yes, I’ve heard that.”

There was a brief silence. The flashy man, for all his verbosity, was now too deep in concentration to talk. He was on his knees, to better get at Percy’s side—the angle, here on the prince’s bed, was suggestive. Not for Percy, of course, but it made him think of the prince.

“But do you know him well?”

“I know him better than you do,” the flashy man said, with a mocking tilt of his head, “else you would not ask me.”

“In faith, there are few in England now who know the prince—”

“If Eastcheap still is England, there are many.”

“Yes, of fools and whores, I suppose there are—ow! Watch what you do,” Percy scolded. “You’re pressing too hard. What are you thinking?”

“That when our Lord washed his disciples’ feet, they were thankful for it,” the flashy man said, “and a little of the road to Emmaus… But here is Ned. Ned, you have a finer hand with a needle than I, I’ll let you at him.”

Maybe the flashy man was a terrible tailor; this Ned was no good at the task, at least. Percy gritted his teeth. The flashy man offered him a piece of cloth to bite—he angrily refused. “I’ll bet that’s what you give the prince, to gag him.”

“You have quite an imagination, about the prince,” the flashy man said.

“In any case, I’ll not be gagged—agh!”

“Suit yourself. Some men relish pain,” the flashy man said. He was now leaning against the back bedboard, watching and smirking, entirely useless.

“At least I am not afraid of it, like your dainty prince.”

“It seems Prince Harry is on your mind tonight.”

“This room stinks of him.”

“I’d not be surprised,” Ned remarked, the first comment he’d made in a while. “One could almost say he is present.”

“Where he is not present is his father’s side,” Percy snapped, “where I was tonight, and had to listen to him lamenting it—the king laid so low, bemoaning the behavior of his son. It was pitiful to watch.”

The flashy man laughed again, but his laughter sounded slightly off. Ned paused with his sewing, and the flashy man said, “Keep on. Well, our good Hotspur is indeed an honest man—though maybe he should not tell tales of the court to every ruffian he meets in a bar.”

This was true—it was usually beneath Percy to gossip—and he felt his face grow hot. He stammered, “You who know the prince, should know what men think of him, and what his position is—and if you do not know he grieves his father yet, I doubt you are truly acquainted.”

“I know plenty of it,” the flashy man said. He frowned, and inched closer on the bed. “I see you are aggrieved, now. Be not so. As I said, you only told the truth.”

Percy flinched at another stitch, and the flashy man put a hand on his shoulder, steadying him. The work was almost done, but pulling the stitches tight hurt almost as much as all the rest. Then the thread was bit off by Ned’s yellowing teeth, and tied into a knot. And Ned stepped back, but the flashy man remained at Percy’s shoulder, squeezing and rubbing the tension out of it.

“I know this has been hard on you, relying on the kindness of strangers,” he said quietly, “but not every man in Eastcheap is the kind of man worth deriding, or the kind of man who would do this to you. I am sorry you were attacked in this place.” He began to rub Percy’s back rather than his shoulder as he asked, “Will you tell me who attacked you?”

“I hardly know their names.”

“Will you describe them to me? Perhaps you’ll give me a good warning, and in the future I can avoid them. Return a favor for a favor.” As if to cap off the comment, the man kissed the back of Percy’s neck.

Percy startled. He glanced back, but the man only looked back at him innocently, eyebrows raised as if he had done nothing. Percy felt vaguely made fun of. He cleared his throat. Better to ignore this kind of nonsense, rather than encourage it.

“You did me no favor by dragging me from my beer, but I’ll tell you. Three men, two skinny, one old and fat. They would not have taken me if I had not been surprised. Zounds, I’ll…”

He fell silent as the man hit a knot of pressure in his back. Abruptly, he pulled away and stood. “I’ll thank you for your help and return to my drinking.”

“But we’ll drink with you,” the flashy man exclaimed. “Won’t we, Ned? I think we shall. We’ll be flattered by your company.”

“If you must,” Percy said, rolling his eyes. Yet he was not sad of it. He thought it would be nice to talk to the flashy man a bit longer.

* * *

 

They drank for quite a while, and throughout the evening the flashy man seemed to grow more fond, asking for stories of Percy’s battles (though he always mocked them) and occasionally touching Percy on the shoulder of kissing him on the cheek, to which he tried not to react too much, or make a fool of himself. After the drinking, they insisted on walking home with him, apparently because it was on the way, though he didn’t like how they looked at each other conspiratorially, and suspected they thought he was weak enough to need protection. They bid him farewell at the door of the inn where he was staying currently with his father. A much more respectable inn than any one would find in Eastcheap. Ned’s farewell was brief; the flashy man lingered a moment in amused, almost condescending affection.

Percy’s father had been watching at the window. He grabbed Percy’s arms as soon as he had descended the stairs and demanded, “Did I just see Harry Monmouth kiss you on the mouth?”

Percy blinked. “What? No, of course not. That was some scoundrel from Eastcheap—a whore or a man of all work or something of the sort. A kiss is courtesy to folk like that. We…”

“You fool of a son,” his father groaned. “How—That was most certainly the prince, I am only inquiring as to your actions.”

“It most certainly was not the prince,” Percy said, “I have been drinking with him all evening.”

“It certainly was,” his father insisted. “The prince likes to play tricks. But if he’s fooled you this far, I hope you haven’t embarrassed yourself in front of him, or said anything unwise. His moods are mercurial—and while he’s no dignity about him, nor class, if he appeals to his father he could very well get your head cut off.”

Percy crossed his arms.

The flashy man, Prince Harry? …that was…

Oddly plausible.

Though he hated himself for it, the second thought that sprang to his mind after sheer incredulity and outrage was that if the flashy man was Prince Harry, then he was neither a whore nor Prince Harry’s lover, and was, in fact, notoriously single, though a chronic seducer, and in both contexts, the way he had kissed Percy became…

He flushed.

“Well, a plague on Prince Harry! And on his whole house! I spoke my mind as I would have spoken it knowing him, and if he chose to play me for a fool, that is his own damn fault—aye, and I’ll see him bleed for it…”

His father cuffed him. “Idiot! You inch your way into talking treason. What I ever did to deserve a son like you, I’ll never know.”

The king would rather have me than Harry, Percy thought, but he for once kept it to himself.

It only occurred to him in bed later that Prince Harry kissing him was the least of it—the man had cleaned out his wounds and distracted him while they were sewn in a surprisingly professional manner. Not the most entertaining of activities, for a prince who all said sought only to be entertained. That thought mingled with the memory of Harry’s lips, and Percy had a hard time sleeping.

Well. It was either that or the pain in his side. Or possibly both.

The next evening, Ned came to the door, though Prince Harry, to Percy’s mingled relief and disappointment, was not with him. He had brough with him a purse, and the purse was Percy’s.

“We got it back for you,” he explained.

Percy stared at him. “You just got it back? And how did you do that?”

“We know Eastcheap, and its denizens,” Ned said with a shrug. “What’s hard to an outsider is not to Eastcheap’s prince. Though, if you don’t want to be an outsider, you’re always welcome to return to the Boar’s Head Inn. We’ll be waiting.” He winked, and was on his way.

Percy considered that idea, the idea of returning. But though he prided himself on courage, the thought of seeing Harry again, knowing it was him… A few days passed, and then he and his father were needed back on their estate, and the opportunity passed. The next time he saw Harry would be quite some time later, and by then, things had changed—in the country itself, and between the two of them. For a prince of the realm and a revolutionary could not meet so casually, as two friendly strangers in a bar on a quiet evening.

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all I do ship Harry/Harry and while this fic is not very shippy, I hope you can sense that it is still imbued with my feels. HAL YOU TRICKY SON OF A BITCH. PERCY, YOU RUDE RUDE MAN. They're both terrible, I love them.  
> Comments will be very much loved.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Wounds Being Cold [a remix]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20401027) by [Lilliburlero](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilliburlero/pseuds/Lilliburlero)




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